Santamon
by TCLessley
Summary: In which Amon does not grant wishes. Contains non-con.


This one-shot was inspired by this picture: lifeispeachy56. tumblr. com

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It does contain non-con. Also, badly written pr0n. I consider you sufficiently warned.

Standard other disclaimers apply.

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"You look like you've had a rough day. Come, sit on my knee, and we can talk about it?" was not what she was expecting to hear from the feared and reviled Equalist leader as she was thrown unceremoniously onto the floor at his feet. Prodding experimentally at her split lip with her tongue, she gazed up at him through dirty and tangled hair. He sat indolently in a grandiose if somewhat battered chair patting his thigh like some benevolent old uncle. She had had enough of benevolent old uncles to last her a lifetime.

She spit at him and tried to call fire from the air. His men were on her like lightening, which is exactly what their shock-sticks felt like as they sent electricity jolting through her body.

She wheezed and whined, wrapping her arms around her middle to hold herself together as pain coursed through her. She rocked and shook and all the while Amon stared down at her from his chair, waiting patiently. Once her body had stilled and her whimpering had ceased, he tilted his masked face to the side and asked, "Are you ready to play nice now?"

She blinked up at him with tears in her eyes. He was once again patting his lap. She swallowed thickly, her mouth filled with the acrid taste of copper. She had bitten through her tongue. Her eyes darted to the other men in the room. They stepped forward menacingly, but at her hesitant nod, Amon waved them away. "Come here," he ordered expectantly.

Wearily, warily, she crawled over to him, her joints and muscles screaming in protest as she used the arm of his chair to pull herself up. He grabbed her wrist, guiding her down onto his lap. One of his arms draped across her own lap while he placed the other at her back, holding her steady.

She looked at him then, really looked, and the emptiness in the eyes behind his mask terrified her like nothing ever had before. "Please don't take my bending," she begged softly, her words a little slurred from the injuries to her mouth and tongue.

He seemed to be considering her, head cocked to the side, "Perhaps we can come to some sort of… arrangement," he offered magnanimously.

An arrangement? Yes, she knew just what sort of _arrangements_ men like him sought. But she had done far worse to get by and would likely do worse still— if she managed to survive this.

"Wh-" she began, her voice breaking. Closing her eyes, she inhaled a large gulp of air, composing herself. She plastered a big fake grin across her cracked lips and turned to face him, "What did you have in mind?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something," he reassured, his hand running up and down the outside of her thigh.

Her grin faltered but only for a moment. Falling back on what she knew best, she shifted in his lap, ignoring the other men as they drew closer, hefting their weapons, anticipating an attack. Amon waved them off again as she only slid between his legs, settling herself on her knees before him.

"If I… Afterwards…" She looked down. She hadn't had to grovel in some time and so searched for the right words. "Swear I'll get to keep my bending," she pleaded. "Please," she added, for good measure.

"If you do a good job…" he acquiesced, twirling a bit of her hair around the fingers of his right hand.

"How will I know…" she asked hoarsely. She wet her lips and started over, "How will I know when I've done a good job?"

"You'll know," was his solemn reply.

His hand dug roughly into her filthy hair, and she knew the time for talk was at an end. Steeling herself, she began to work at the fastenings of his belt and then his trousers, pushing his tunic up and out of the way. She found him hard and waiting for her, and truthfully the idea disgusted her.

Hoping the sentiment didn't show on her face, she got down to work. She lapped at him with her tongue, forgetting for a moment that she'd torn it open with her teeth. The pain soon reminded her as blood seeped from the wound, coating him along with her lips.

She took him as deeply as she was able. He pushed her down further. She gagged, and she could have sworn she heard him laugh as she choked and salivated around him before he let go. Pulling back, she took a moment to recover before taking him back into her mouth. Her lips and hand worked him up and down until he was slick and slippery with her blood and spit. Saliva dripped from the corners of her mouth and down her chin.

Soon she tasted an overabundance of salt on her tongue, and then he was pulling her away, dragging her up onto his lap, tugging at her clothes. She helped him, if only to keep her clothing from becoming even more ragged. And then she was straddling him, her back to his chest, and then he was inside her. And despite all of her saliva and blood, she wasn't ready for him. She cried out in pain, and that only seemed to urge him on as he surged up into her. His hands were everywhere, plucking at her breasts, pulling on her hips, stroking her stomach, her thighs, her back and neck.

She used the arms of his chair to steady herself as she rode him, trying to match his pacing, trying to keep him from hurting her as much as possible. During the entire ordeal, he made almost no sound. So little that she could have almost forgotten it was him if not for the cold feel of his mask pressed between her shoulder blades.

And as he grew harder inside her, and his rhythm began to break, she was almost beginning to think that this wasn't so bad of a bargain after all. A little pain and humiliation for her freedom, for her bending. She'd had worse. She would survive this after all.

And in those last moments, those final frenzied thrusts, he raised his right hand from her hip, placed his thumb on her forehead, and removed her bending.

She shrieked, her body tightening and spasming around him, her fingers prying at his hands, and Amon came hard. When he had completely emptied himself into her, he pushed her off of him— still screaming and crying—and back onto the dirty floor, once again at his feet.

"But you promised… you promised…" she sobbed brokenly, her body curling in on itself protectively.

He stood, using her discarded shirt to clean himself off before doing up his pants. "I lied," he replied dully, stepping over her as he methodically set his clothing to rights, refastening his belt and straightening his coat with practiced ease. Never once looking back, he casually exited the room, leaving the weeping, naked woman where she lay on the floor for his men to do with as they pleased.

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Moral of the story: Amon cannot get off without taking someone's bending. LoK makes so much more sense now.


End file.
